


He Drowned In A Pond Of Paradigms

by Zayrastriel



Series: The Drowning 'verse [7]
Category: Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Fun, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:04:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what he’s always done, and this is what he’ll always do (even if it means making the hard decisions, and breaking himself (her) along the way).</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Drowned In A Pond Of Paradigms

Will became a member of the Young Labour on his fourteenth birthday, and his father’s gift to him when he graduated from Oxford with first class honours in international law was an endorsement for his campaign (a campaign which Will didn’t know about, but then that’s never bothered his father) to run for the House of Commons.

He’s destined for politics in a sort of _destined_ that money and parentage predetermine, rather than some sort of higher being that Will doesn’t believe in (though he mouths the words, a good little non-believing Protestant from the moment he realised that he was never going to be a cellist like he wanted).  It’s something Will has always accepted, alongside the understanding that liberalism is good and realism is reality, that social constructivism is something he’d like to live by but paradigms of international relations have nothing to do with politics and Christ he _hates politics even though he’s good at it_.

It says a lot about Will that when, a very human form of Armageddon comes along (crosses the Channel weakly in the fast-oncoming cold of September), he can’t feel anything but slight relief at the fact that England is now under martial law; that elections don’t exist, and there’s time to practice the cello (life’s looking up for him, after all, so with any luck the first cello of the London Phil will get his head ripped off by a creature before the whole thing is over and everything goes back till normal.)

 

~

 

He feels that way right up till October when he has to shoot his father dead and burn the body as the man staggers into the old manor, clutching a bite wound with bloody fingers.  He even keeps feeling it till he’s appointed, dignified and confused in his father’s place for lack of replacement, as England’s new Assistant Secretary for Foreign Affairs,

(That’s around the time he realises that _normal_ probably burned to ashes about three months ago.)

With shaking fingers, Will takes the cello off of the stand in his music room.  It lies virtually untouched in his new apartment in London, silent witness to the fact that his life is an enormous mesh of a failure to escape his father’s rule, even when the bastard’s not had enough decency to stay alive and outright force him.

It’s the inevitability of it all that Will hates; because even if it’s more brutal (talks with scientists and that strange girl in Antarctica who doesn’t seem to have the slightest idea about either science or politics but has all the answers nonetheless, having to spend every day talking the Russian government out of making a nuclear winterland of Africa, of Australia, of the Indian subcontinent), it’s the same thing.

 _Politics_.

 

~

 

On the last night of March, a few days after the Netherlands have finally re-established some sort of contact with the rest of civilisation, Will gets a missive from Antarctica (delivered by an ex-butcher, six feet seven, and even here in England where they’re surviving relatively unscathed things are being shaken around, the status quo completely inverted).

_British citizen Tom Hiddleston located.  Happiness yes?_

_Alice, you cryptic little_ …

(But Will met Tom a few times, and they’re actually vaguely friends and the man can act, so he can’t bring himself to actually be annoyed, more curious as to how on earth she managed to make the correct assumption that Will actually cares about the man.)

Nevertheless – “really, Alice?” he says snidely without bothering with the niceties when she picks up the phone.  “Really?”

She makes a protesting sound, but he talks over her.  “How did he survive?” Will asks, genuinely curious; he knows that Tom’s plane went down somewhere in Europe, shot down by the creatures (a new investigation, a new level of _somethingwrong_ to add to this whole debacle).

“ _Oh, one of my friends actually found him outside of the town she’s in, in the Netherlands.”_

 _Ah yes, the Netherlands_ – “an Australian exchange student in Canada reported receiving a message from a ‘Lia’ from the Netherlands – would that-“

“ _Oh my god,_ Tracey _?_ ” Alice interrupts, excitement seeping through the phone, “ _and yeah that’s the same Lia that found him – she’s been like totally obsessed with him since the end of high school so yeah lucky her – but_ Tracey _??  How is she?_ ”

About halfway through the next hour Will realises that he’s not going to get anything productive out of her – surprising, actually, since she’s not usually so distracted – and diverts the call (without telling her) to his assistant, who’s harbouring hopes of a long-distance relationship with Miss Thein and thus probably knows enough to actually hold a two-way conversation with Alice.

Then he grabs his mobile and scrolls down to _Benedict the Cabbage Patch Kid_ , where he has a conversation that goes something along the lines of:

“Yes, that Tom – the one we both actually know, why on earth would I be talking about Felton – don’t sound so surprised about everything – come on, you know you’re actually glad he’s alive, deep down – a Tumblr fangirl, apparently, or at least that’s what Alice- and no, she didn’t smash his face in with a hammer, who in Christ’s name actually does that?”

 

~

 

Sometime in April, Will’s superior receives a phone call from New Delhi while Will is in the room to watch the man pick up the phone with quavering fingers.

After a long, silent conversation punctuated by the brief meaningless word, the Minister puts down the phone and turns to Will, ashen-faced.  “I just talked to the British ambassador to India,” he says.  “My cousin, you understand,” and Will frowns, not understanding.

“How…”  He trails off, because unfortunately for him politics involves putting together pieces, whether it’s experimentation data from MI6, communications signals from Antarctica, or news of deforestation in New Zealand.

(And even more unfortunately, Will is good at politics.)

“They can think.”

The man nods, shutting his eyes.

 _Even worse,_ Will thinks to himself, _they’ve clearly discovered politics._

~

 

“This is ridiculous,” he says flatly.

Andrew, his assistant, makes placating noises while ushering him in front of the giant screen, but enough is enough.  “No,” Will repeats firmly for what must be the hundred and first time (at least).  “The French, yes.  The Germans, maybe – hell, even the Swiss, alright.  But I’m the fucking _Assistant Secretary for Foreign Affairs_ and I get saddled with some adolescent from _Netherlands_?  Who,” he adds, “I might point out, isn’t actually Dutch?  Or indeed, versed in anything remotely related to international relations?”  He frowns, because “anyway, isn’t there another Australian girl there who actually, you know, did something at university that didn’t involve drawing pictures with a computer?”

The other man, curse him, merely looks at him, amused, seated elegantly and cross-legged in a chair facing the screen as Will glares at him.  “I know you know the answers to all those questions.”

 _Not true – I don’t actually understand why the art girl is getting picked over the other one_ , but his assistant continues, “except for the last.”

 _Damnit, I should have fired him ages ago.  He’s far too good at his job_.

“And aside from the fact that Ara,” he says her name with an ease that suggests he’s actually talked to her, “has some characteristics that the office has found…hard to work with-“

“You mean she’s off her rocker,” Will interjects – he’s heard of this, actually.

Andrew nods politely.  “Something like that, yes, Will,” he agrees, fond patience in his tone.  “Also, though, it seems that Ara is refusing to talk to Alice Cheung.” 

 _Can’t imagine why_. “Why?”

“Miss Cheung is good at keeping secrets,” is the simple response, as though that explains everything.  It takes Will a good couple of minutes of thought as they wait for the connection to stabilise and the video software to load before he is forced to concede that there are too many secrets going around for him to determine which one Alice was particularly good at keeping.

“Which-“

“The creatures are capable of intelligent thought,” Andrew replies without looking away from the ground.  ‘I’d imagine that would be a considerable shock to someone who has spent months hunting them like animals.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, and so busies himself with the file he’d been handed on this _Raine_ before being locked in the room.

“Who the fuck calls their child _Raine_?” Will has to say, finally, after staring at the one word for a good five minutes.  “And without even having the common decency to _spell_ it correctly – oh dear God,” he realises, “she’s an artist.  No wonder her parents can’t spell – artists and dyslexia go hand in hand, Andrew, you’re forcing me to negotiate with a possible dyslexic…”

Andrew’s face is carefully blank, and he’s looked up from the ground to a point just above Will’s head.

“The connection’s stabilised,” Will doesn’t even bother asking, voice dull and resigned.

“Your perceptiveness is astounding.”

 

~

 

To her credit, Raine (no last name provided, and she insists that he call her by her first name anyway so Will doesn’t actually care) takes what she overheard fairly well; that is, she doesn’t call him out as a douchebag till about three weeks later when he’s starting to move her from _colleague_ to acquaintance in his mental map of his relationships.

In any case, she actually seems to agree with him on the _artists shouldn’t get involved with politics_ front – from the offset, she’s quick to assure him that she doesn’t actually know anything about what’s going on beyond the general _zombie apocalypse, yay_ (her words) vibe.  “And to be honest,” she adds the second time they talk, “none of us really care.  Just tell us what’s going on, and let us know if the Russians are like, planning on nuking Amsterdam.”

He very carefully doesn’t flinch at the word _nuking_ but she must read something in his expression because about two weeks later they have a conversation that goes something like this:

“Okay so this might be really awkward but you’ll warn us if we’re going to die in some sort of post-apocalyptic nuclear winter, right?”

Since there’s really no right answer to that question, he settles for “yes.”

 

~

 

It’s his birthday, the eve of Halloween, and he is determinedly not drunk on videophone to Raine, arguing about political relations with zombies.

(He is only merely tipsy, but the rest of that sentence is rather unfortunately true.)

“Alright, well, not to sound stupid or anything, but I actually don’t understand why they aren’t just taking the deal?”  Raine’s voice is a bit slurred, but coherent enough.

Will snorts, a bit less dignified than he’d been aiming for as he waves the hand not wrapped around a wine glass in some sort of vague gesture of _I am wise, and it is fitting that you have come to me for answers, oh strangely attractive alcoholic_.

“It’s the…” He can’t hold his wine glass and talk at the same time, so he very carefully puts it down, using the time to gather his thoughts into something remotely resembling a cohesive, logical response.  “The Europeans want their land, you see.”  He frowns – something’s not right about that sentence.  “The zombies, that is,” he tries again, “they have ties to the land too, you see.  Cultural and what-not.”

Not perfect, but it’ll have to do, and she’s nodding over the video connection.  “Alright, fair enough, then can’t we just, you know, split continents or something.  Sharing is caring, anyway.”

“Pfft.”  A few droplets of wine fly out of his mouth at that and if he were sober he’d find it disgusting.  As it is, Raine laughs and he enjoys the sound enough to not care.  “Told you this last week, you fool, Africa an’ India and all the nice hot places are zombie-fied.  _Completement_.  _Finito_.  Ain’t gonna get no more humans there, sweetheart,” and God his mouth is just moving, while his brain stares on, blinking often in an attempt to try and refresh the connection between intellect and MOUTH, try and get them actually working in sync.

She nods again but there’s a focussed frown on her face, like she’s thinking of something else.  “You.”  Her gaze flickers down to her empty glass, and her frown intensifies.  “You are rather attractive,” she announces.  “For a douchebag,” is added as an afterthought, as though she doesn’t tell him that every time they talk now in some form or another.  “Very attractive, in fact.  But like, a total douchebag.  In an attractive sort of way.”

Will shrugs.  “I try,” he says modestly.  “I try.”

 _Leave it there_ , his mind decides – he’s got enough blackmail material on her, especially because he knows IT records these conversations, filtering out what’s not relevant, and he’s sure he can bribe someone to give him the files for this one.

“And to your credit, you are also very attractive.  And now I’m going to leave you before I find myself waxing eloquent on the specifically attractive aspects of your physique.  Also your personality and intellect, and-“

 _Abort, William_ , his mind orders him in a panic, and he manages to cut himself off.  “Goodbye,” he says grandiosely, and he manages to disconnect the call before he runs off to vomit.

 

~

 

They meet for the first time in Amsterdam after the tentative deal is formalised – _zombies out of Europe, humans safely out of Australia, here’s your side of the world and here’s ours and we have to try_ – and cement about four months of cyber-flirting and looking-up-at-the-other-from-under-eyelashes with what was meant to be a polite, culturally cognisant kiss on the cheek that turned into a make out session (Raine’s words, as they sat at lunch very obviously not looking at each other), only interrupted by the familiar sound of Tom clearing his throat.

Three days later he finds out about the plan, told to him by a shamefaced NATO general because really, there’s betrayal and there’s betrayal.

There’s also genocide, and guilt.

 _It’s not the same thing_ , the Minister for Foreign Affairs tells him firmly.  _They aren’t human.  We can’t renege on a deal if they aren’t human_.  _And they’ll betray us, anyway, you know they will._

But nuclear bombs speak a universal, cross-species language of destruction, and even worse, of pain.  They aren’t a weapon, they aren’t self-defence.

They’re cruelty, packed into the arms equivalent of a handbag.

In some ways, he is glad that he’s sworn to secrecy on pain of death.  It eases the guilt (of the whole thing, but mostly of not telling her.)

Not much, but a little.


End file.
